My Cousin Signed The Account He Could No Longer Explain

Nadim brought coffee to the accounting meeting.

He remembered mine with milk and no sugar. For a second, that hurt more than the forged sentence about my conduct.

I left the cup on his side of the table.

Ruth had printed the bank entries in order. The buyer's $23,000 came in on a Tuesday. Within a week, Nadim had paid $8,000 toward credit cards and $5,000 toward overdue truck payments.

The remaining $10,000 had been frozen when the estate's records were secured.

"Those were business expenses," he said.

"Whose business?" Ruth asked.

"Mine."

"Then why were they paid from money received for estate films?"

He picked up my coffee, then put it down.

Beatrice sat beside me. Ruth's lawyer sat across from her. Nadim's new lawyer had warned him to let the documents answer what they could.

They answered almost everything.

The $69,000 balance had never been paid. Felix still claimed that his bargain should be enforced, but the decree and his own messages had left that claim with very little weight.

His lawyer joined the meeting by phone.

"Our client will release any claimed interest in the films upon return of the deposit," she said.

"And the damage?" Beatrice asked.

"He disputes the amount."

She sent over the invoices again.

There were $9,600 in emergency preservation costs and $8,400 in legal fees for recovering the reels and resolving the sale dispute. The invoices named the work and the hours. We hadn't added a price for my anger or for Nora's fear.

The total was $18,000.

"He can dispute specific entries," Beatrice said. "Which ones?"

The call went quiet.

Settlement took two more meetings. It didn't arrive because anyone became kind. Felix wanted his money back. Nadim wanted to avoid another trial. I wanted clean title, the costs covered, and an end to their access.

The final terms were written in plain enough words that I could read them without help.

Felix released every claim to the archive and any right under the sales agreement. He confirmed he had kept no scans or copies. He had to return the inspection notes and disclose who had handled the reels. Those names matched the viewer rental and transport records.

He agreed to pay $12,000 toward the harm and recovery costs. Nadim agreed to pay the other $6,000.

The full $23,000 deposit would go back to Felix: $10,000 from the frozen balance and $13,000 from Nadim's inheritance.

Nadim also agreed to cover $7,000 in extra estate expenses caused by his false document and missing records. The court would review and approve the final estate account.

"You still get paid," he told me.

"I get paid for hours I work. These payments replace money the archive had to spend."

He looked at the totals as if I had invented subtraction to insult him.

After ordinary bills, the residue left to him under the true will was $54,000. The deposit shortage, his share of damages, and the extra estate costs reduced it to $28,000.

He wasn't left with nothing. He was left with what the valid will gave him, less what his choices had cost.

That seemed to upset him more.

"At least agree this stays in the family," he said.

"The orders are filed," I answered. "I won't promise to lie about them."

There was no silence clause in the final agreement.

Nadim signed every page in front of his lawyer. His real signature had a long tail that ran into the margin. When he pushed the pen toward me, I took my own from my bag. I read the pages once more before I signed beneath him.

The civil court entered its terms as an order. It required the payments and barred both men from removing, selling, or copying archive materials without my written consent as trustee.

No appeal of the probate decree was filed within the allowed time. Ruth could finish the transfer.

At the archive, she handed me an inventory with 189 entries. Every can was present. Beside each number were condition notes and a location.

I signed the acceptance as trustee of the Salma Azzi Film Trust.

Then the bank confirmed the transfer of the $164,000 care fund. It went into a trust account, separate from my rent money, with the records ready for an annual report.

Nadim watched from the hall while he returned his key.

"You're going to spend your life counting cans," he said.

"Today, yes."

He left the coffee on the floor outside the door. I poured it out and recycled the cup.

There were still scans to make and a criminal referral I couldn't control. The archive could finally work while those other days arrived.

That afternoon, Nora brought a sealed envelope from the neighborhood library.

Inside was a signed request to hold the first public screening of The Last Shift.